Waiting for the Spark
The war room of Greymoor Keep smelled of parchment, wax, and steel. Sir Aldric stood before the dais, his cloak still damp from rain, his face grim.
"My lords," he said, bowing to the three. "Riders have left the keep in the night. Two different routes. Neither returned."
Kael's eyes narrowed. "Maelwyn."
Aldric inclined his head. "I cannot prove the letters' contents, not yet — but I have ears in the inns and stables. They speak of strange coin changing hands, of messengers cloaked in Hollowmere black and Cazwyn crimson. She has reached beyond our walls."
Riven growled low in his throat. "The snake plays both sides. She wants them at our throats."
Damian, ever composed, only drummed his fingers against the table. "Or she wants to see who strikes first. Hollowmere, Cazwyn… both circling like vultures. She feeds them, and waits to see who swoops down."
Kael rose, pacing before the fire. "If Hollowmere declares war, we crush them. If Cazwyn does, we bleed them. Either way, conquest. That's the opportunity."
Riven grinned wolfishly. "Conquest… now you're talking my language."
Damian shook his head. "Not yet. We cannot fight both Houses, not as we are. The militia is loyal but raw. The granaries are stable but thin. And our only edge —" he tapped the parchment sketches of sulfur stores and new plows — "is not ready for war."
Kael sighed, nodding. "Then we bide our time. Let them scheme. Let Maelwyn weave her webs. We'll keep her close, Aldric will watch, and when the first House strikes—"
Riven slammed his fist into his palm. "—we answer with fire and steel. And we don't just survive. We expand."
Damian allowed himself the smallest of smiles. "That is how empires are born."
So the House of Voss Arclight Cross waited.
Spring fields sprouted green. Soldiers drilled in the yards. Sulfur dust gathered in sealed jars. And spies whispered in alleys.
Lady Maelwyn smiled sweetly in council, hiding daggers in her heart. Sir Aldric sharpened his vigilance, his hand never far from his sword.
And far beyond Greymoor's walls, two great Houses weighed their next moves, unaware that the sky-gods were not merely defending their hold — they were waiting, sharpening, preparing.
When war came, VAC would not just endure.
They would seize.